I Drive Your Truck
by Gypsy
Summary: I drive your truck, I roll every window down, and I burn up every back road in this town. I find a field, I tear it up till all the pain's a cloud of dust. Yeah, sometimes, I drive your truck. Character death/tragedy


This is a one shot that came to me while listening to the radio. Music tends to give me lots of ideas. I don't it too. Brain is too full as it is. But this wouldn't let me alone till I wrote it, so here it is.

Warning: Character death. Don't hate me for it. It was needed for the story to work.

The story is based on Lee Brice's song 'I Drive Your Truck'. I've included the lyrics at the end. Watch the video for the song on Youtube is you want to ball your eyes out. When I heard the song, I thought it sounded like something Tony might do if anything ever happened to Gibbs. Once that got stuck in my head, I was doomed.

Disclaimer: NCIS is not mine. The song "I Drive Your Truck" is not mine. Nothing belongs to me but the crazy idea, a few sleepless nights, and a yorkipoo.

* * *

Spare change rattled around inside of the ashtray. Tony knew his boss would have never allowed anyone to light up a cigarette inside of his truck, so what else would the empty tray be used for? A quick glance told him the total might come to about eighty-nine cents. He left it where it was.

A dirty baseball cap sat on the dashboard. It was so battered and faded that Tony had a hard time making out which team it was for. It looked like the Braves. He was surprised that Gibbs was a Braves fan. He was surprised that Gibbs was a baseball fan at all. They never talked about sports, no matter how many times Tony had tried to engage him in any such conversation. If he had known, he would have asked Gibbs to take in a game with him from time to time. He tore his gaze away from the hat, finding that the sight of it made the ache in his gut grow stronger.

A half empty bottle of what appeared to be orange flavored Gatorade rolled out from under the passenger seat. He raised his eyebrow at that one. Gatorade and Gibbs was something he would never have put together. Now, if an empty travel coffee mug had been rolling around in there, that he would have understood.

He picked it up, placing it in the back with the rolled up 'US Marines' sweatshirt, the old Skoal can (chewing tobacco?), and the broke in and busted up cowboy boots intending to take them out later, but knowing he wouldn't. They had been put there for a reason, at least that is what he told himself, and he couldn't bring himself to remove the items which Gibbs had placed there. Because GIBBS had placed them there.

Tony fingered the dog tags that hung from the rearview mirror. Gibbs's name stamped into the metal. He had always wondered where his boss's marine tags ended up. It wasn't until he saw this old rusted out truck sitting in the back of Jackson's house that he found the answer. To that question, and a whole lot more that he hadn't even thought to ask.

Not for the first time, he wondered if his frequent trips to Stillwater where bothering Jackson. Tony knew he shouldn't come here. Jackson needed to heal, as they all did, and always having Tony under heel couldn't be conducive to that. He found he couldn't stay away, though, and Jackson always welcomed him with a smile and open arms. And the keys. Somehow Jack always had the keys to the truck in his hand, ready to hand them over to Tony when they met at the front door.

"Things a gas guzzler, Tony." Jackson had said when he first found his son's second in command sitting in the drivers seat. "Jethro only drove it while he was visiting here. Can't boost myself up into, what with this leg." He said, giving his leg with the bum knee a tap with his cane.

"Don't matter." Tony replied. Not much seemed to lately.

Six months…god, could it have only been six months?….had gone by, and still Tony could not get beyond the pain, beyond the sadness that seemed to hang over him like a cloud ever since that damn bullet found the one weak spot in Gibbs's armor, and entered his body. Just below the left arm pit. Shattering bone along its way to nick an artery in the heart of a man who most would have said didn't have one. It was over quickly, but for Tony it would never be over. He hadn't sleep much in those six months, because every time he closed his eyes he would see the same, bloody scene over and over again.

Tony had to move into Gibbs's house (and damn him for leaving the place to Tony anyway) because of complaints by neighbors in his old apartment building caused by his nightly screaming.

The only place Tony felt close to be coping with the whole fucked up thing was here, in Stillwater, sitting in an old, rusty truck that spewed black smoke out of its tail pipe, and tended to shudder when going any speed over 55.

Tony put the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine moaned, groaned, and screeched, before giving over and starting up. Immediately the radio came on. The call sign jingle of WTLA, Philadelphia's greatest country, sang out from the tinny speakers.

Country music. Tony shook his head. The surprises had just kept coming. He had nothing against country himself, in fact enjoyed many of the artists, both old and new, he just never knew Gibbs did as well. He never felt the need to change the station. He turned it up till the sound was loud enough to burst an eardrum, pulled the gear down to drive, and took off. If the wheels spun a little, churning up the gravel in Jackson's drive, he never said anything.

As Tony headed down one of the back roads that made up the general area of Stillwater, he tried to ignore the feeling of wetness on his cheeks. He could imagine the head slap he's receive if Gibbs could see him right now, but to be honest, he'd take the mother of all head slaps if it meant that his boss could be in the passenger seat next to him, berating him for being weak, for not manning up and excepting things as they where. Tony was trying to be tough, to be strong for everyone else. He put on a good show most of the time. But then, no one thought to look too closely at him, to ask how he was feeling. He was thrust into the role of team leader without even an 'You'll do', and expected to investigate the murder of his former boss without having been given time to process it in his brain.

Abby was a mess. He knew he had to put on a brave front for her sake, and for Ducky, who tended to go around the autopsy like a man who had lost his best friend. Who, in fact, had.

Ziva was gone. She just wouldn't stay without Gibbs. And Tim….well, Tony was trying, but something between them was lost, and it seemed neither of them was willing, or they where just to tired to try to find it again.

It hurt. It hurt like nothing else to know that his family was gone. Just gone. Without Gibbs, the family he thought he had found was nonexistent. He supposed he shouldn't be too surprised. Nothing good ever seemed to last long around him.

Tony thought of Jack again, and of how welcoming the older man had been to him. Inviting him to come visit after the funeral, not blinking an eye when Tony just showed up about every other weekend without warning. It was really the only comfort Tony had. That, and driving around in this truck.

Jack had asked if Tony had gone to the cemetery much. He had, but not often. He had gone once with Abby. She had packed a picnic lunch. Spread out a blanket by the grave, and talked to the stone like it was really Gibbs about what was going on at the Navy Yard. Tony had felt sick the entire time. That wasn't Gibbs. Some cold, impersonal stone. Tony couldn't feel him there. Tony couldn't feel him anywhere.

Except here.

The field had once been part of old man Patterson's corn crop, but had gone to seed. Tony pulled off the road without slowing down and tore through the weeds, dirt spitting out behind the real wheels. He turned the wheel to the left sharply, turning out am impressive circle. He braked sharply.

The horn sounded loudly when he banged his fist against it. Again and again. Punching against it to drown out the sound of his own painful yells.

Why? Why? Why?

He would never get the answer. Knew he never would. Gibbs's killer was dead. Shot through the eyes by Tony's own gun. Resisting arrest was the final verdict. A righteous kill. That was what was on the paperwork. Nobody said any different, contradicted any part of Tony's story.

Shutting the truck off, Tony quickly jumped out and vomited on the ground. He fell to his knees, trying to get his breathing under control. God, he couldn't take this. Couldn't understand. He wanted to tear his own heart out because it just wouldn't stop hurting.

He needed help. He knew that, just as he knew he wouldn't do anything about it. He would just go on. He had too. Gibbs would expect it of him, and damn it all if he would go and disappoint Gibbs now.

He wasn't sure how long he ended up sitting there in the field, leaning against Gibbs's truck, but the sun had gone down over the horizon by the time he pulled back into Jackson's driveway.

The elder Gibbs was waiting for him by the back door, a beer bottle in one hand.

"Okay there, Tony?"

Tony took the bottle, drinking deeply from it before answering. "No."

Jackson nodded in understanding. Tony never did need to say much to Jack. The older man just seemed to know what he was thinking and feeling. It was really quite eerie.

"Do you think he minds?" Tony asked, looking down at the beer. A local brew from just over the county border.

"Minds what?" Jack didn't need to ask who Tony was talking about.

"That I drive his truck."

Jack sighed and put his arm around Tony's shoulders, pulling the younger man into his embrace. He had lost his only son, and that emptiness would never be filled again. But Jethro had left him something. He had given him Tony, and Jack intended to love and cherish the boy for as long as he was able.

"No, son. He doesn't mind. Doesn't mind at all."

* * *

**I Drive Your Truck**

**By**

**Lee Brice**

_Eighty-nine cents in the ashtray_

_Half empty bottle of Gatorade rolling on the floorboard_

_That dirty Braves cap on the dash_

_Dog tags hangin' from the rear view_

_Old Skoal can, and cowboy boots and a Go Army shirt folded in the back_

_This thing burns gas like crazy, but that's alright_

_People got their way of coping, Oh, I've got mine_

_I drive your truck. I roll every window down and I burn up_

_Every back road in this town._

_I find a field, I tear it up, till all the pain's a cloud of dust_

_Yeah, sometimes, I drive your truck_

_I leave that radio playing that same ole country station where ya left it_

_Yeah, man I crank it up_

_And you'd probably punch my arm right now_

_If you saw this tear rollin' down my face_

_Hey, man I'm tryin' to be tough_

_Momma asked me this morning if I'd been by your grave_

_But that flag and stone ain't where I feel you anyway_

_I drive your truck, I roll every window down and I burn up_

_Every back road in this town_

_I find a field, I tear it up, till that pain's a cloud of dust_

_Yeah, sometimes, I drive your truck_

_I've cussed, I've prayed, I've said good-bye_

_Shook my fist and asked God why_

_These days when I'm missing you this much_

_I drive your truck, I roll every window down and I burn up_

_Every back road in this town_

_I find a field, I tear it up, till the pain's a cloud of dust_

_Yeah, sometimes, brother, sometime_

_I drive your truck_

_I drive your truck_

_I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind_

_I drive your truck_


End file.
